


Suicidal Tendencies

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Welcome to the Game (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Creampie, Distant Sex, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, Impersonal Sex, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Language Barrier, Murder, No Romance, No noncon, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes, Tattoos, Vaginal Sex, distracted sex, possible pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-07-16 07:29:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16081379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Summary: She's fucked up. She's high and there's clingwrap to make the cleanup easier. A gun sits in her hands as they tremble and just as she's about to pull the trigger... he shows up and turns everything upside down.Anon asked: I absolutely adored your Breather x Readers! Can I request a Lucas Kumiega x Reader?A/N: Day 13 of Kinktober for distant/distracted sex and creampie. Anon, I only just realized you requested a reader!pov and I did not deliver. I'm sorry about that, but I hope this is enjoyable all the same. Please see tags for warnings! <3





	Suicidal Tendencies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



The pin dropped when she was about to pull the trigger. Her life changed before the splatter and not because it ended either, but because ‘he’ showed up.

She’d taken a handful of valium an hour ago… not enough to kill herself because she didn’t want to die a slow, suffocating death, but just enough to remove the fear of abyssal nothingness; the thought of the unknown. Worse than the ‘not knowing’ was the thought that there was just… zilch, zero... 

Death may well be like falling asleep but never waking up. She was going to die anyway - one day - but when faced with it head on, it was a bit daunting. So, hence the valium, which was working wonders at this point. 

Aside from the inevitability of death that plagued all mankind - all things - she sure as shit didn’t want to die knowing Jessie was the one to have orchestrated her demise or for him to have the pleasure of knowing he’d had a part in her gruesome death. That fuck wad didn’t deserve that sort of satisfaction.

If a psychotic bookstore manager/petty gang leader couldn’t take no for an answer and was going to go to such lengths as to have her killed for not spreading her thighs around his greasy belly, then it was better to die by her own hands than whatever scumbag he’d hired to do it for him. This, at least, was a mercy she could grant herself. Suicide was less demeaning.

That evening, in the middle of a week-long downpour, she’d ventured under the light weight of an umbrella, bundled up in a hoodie and sweatpants to buy the gun for the job. It was all so straightforward. From the walk down to the store, asking the owner what could put a man down with one shot if she needed to defend herself, to then paying for it. Easy. Simple - too simple. 

Did she technically own the gun? Well, she hadn’t asked, and the only paper trace had been her signature on the cash receipt. 

The worst part of the whole ordeal hadn’t been the purchase or the reasons behind it necessarily, it had been the walk home. Every step felt like it was going to be her last - that at any moment she was going to get sniped from the top of an apartment complex, and left to bleed out in the street… in the rain… alone… at least here, in her apartment, she could pet her cat Aldred and say goodbye to him one last time… although he’d give her this look that said he thought she was taking the cowards way out.

‘You don’t get it, ya floofy asshole… he’s connected. I can’t just show up and shoot his face off or more - worse ones than him - will show up. Then… I’ll wish I was dead. They don’t call ‘em gang bangs for nothing, ya know?’

Of course, Aldred didn’t understand. He was an animal, and animals fought back when they were cornered. If she couldn’t live, then she could at least cut open the bag of cat food for him and dump half of it out in the tiny kitchen. She cracked her balcony door with an upturned wall mirror laid like a ramp to help the young cat out should he prefer living in the streets and not risk a shelter when the cops took her body away. Whatever she could do for her only responsibility, she would… but tonight was her last and that was final… no matter how many times that green glare caught her eye.

There was a note on her bed, which was all tucked in and well made. She’d covered her death area with about four rolls of cling wrap stuck to the walls and floor around, and it’s here where she sat by the space where her sofa used to be. The worn pleather couch was currently pushed up against the banister that partition the sleeping area from the living area; a lone paper bag from her pawn shop purchase resting on the black cushion.

All the city noises that usually got under her skin were dampened by the hard-hitting rain. The wet, battering sound was made even louder by her open balcony door.  
“... and tonight I kill myself,” she muttered.

The drugs were an electric blanket between her skin and muscles, relaxing her tendons to the point that she had to lift her knees and catch her bare heels on the saran-wrapped floor so she could rest her elbows on her knees in order to steady the gun underneath her chin. It seemed precarious, but she nudged the barrel where she figured the trajectory would pummel the middle of her brain and swallowed.

A cold wind swept the rain against the apartment building, rattling the glass windows and the sliding door to her right. She smelled the soft scent of rain, focused on the calming power of valium and childhood memories, but just before she found the trigger and said her farewells in the form of brain matter and blood spray…

... the front door unlocked.

She snapped her eyes open against the diazepam-embrace until it felt like the orbs were gonna fall over her cheeks and roll across the floor. 

A bald head, a black suit and tie with black leather gloves holding a silenced pistol stared at her. In one second, her brain processed the tattoos and a skinny lockpick in his other hand. There was no thinking… just refusal to be gunned down by this fucker and Jessie’s dirty money; bad luck and a short fucking life. She snarled as the hitman took in the scene with brief, quick glances before staring into her eyes as she pulled the trigger.

The fucking thing didn’t fire. 

The hammer didn’t pull back… the trigger didn’t even budge, and her self-righteous face fell into a panic. Withheld tears fell down her face as the door was slammed behind him. She whimpered weakly and pathetically as the man charged forward - well-dressed shoes clicking on her polished wood floor - until she was crying and the gun was fast ripped from her delicate little fingers.

“No-” she choked, stopping silent as the tears fell harder when the man pushed his fat silencer to her forehead; scalp banging against a saran-coated wall.

The man muttered something in Russian… Polish? - Something foreign… something Eastern which she couldn’t even begin to understand. In supplication, she lifted her naked palms and felt her lower lip tremble. This was not how it was supposed to end… not like this… 

… never this.

The assassin turned her gun over in his hand and ran a black-oiled thumb over the safety on the side. She blinked away the gleam of tears, realizing her lack of forethought. What a fucking dumbass she was... 

Couldn’t even kill herself properly, she thought, swallowing phlegm and saliva and terror as it ate away at the valium high she was supposed to use for her own suicide. Now it was fading, and she was trembling against the business end of a sizeable looking pistol that was going to do her job for her.

Jessie was gonna wake up with a confirmation email, smile and go about his day like the shithead he was.

“... please, let me do it,” she begged him and then… something inside her broke, snapped and flooded. She blinked, looked around with fast shifting orbs as the room started running like a waterfall. Had she died? Was she dead? No, it was just the rest of those pills doing a lovely job of relaxing her to the point of mild lunacy. She blinked poorly, trying to focus on the black pressed pants and crotch ahead of her but saw nothing more than blurred shadows, swimming colors, and long shapes. The distance was out of focus, and the foreground was nearly just as bad. 

The gun pushed her against the wall harder as a masculine, forlorn chuckle liquefied her insides. He said something that at first sounded unequivocally foreign, but then his voice dropped more in-depth, and the accent was lulling in its understanding and clarity. 

“Foolish dama,” the assassin told her; called her. 

She: the fool, frowned. He wasn’t wrong. 

To be fair, she’d never held a gun until tonight. Forgetting about something like flipping the safety had been the last thing on her mind. More care and attention went into making sure her cat survived after she was gone… or that her brother - wherever he was in the world - knew she still loved him despite everything he said to her that day… or the things she’d said in turn and the things she’d done... 

Her killer muttered a cynical sounding follow-up to his soft insult - unintelligible - and tossed her pistol on the sofa behind him. Body-warmed steel pressed harder between her eyes. If she were clear-headed, she would have seen the curiosity in his eyes, but she wasn’t and saw nothing but a Reaper. The Devil. A fuckface.

She swallowed, closed her eyes and thought about that one time when her grandparents took her and Benji to Disney World… all the rides and ice cream and soft pretzels… all that childlike wonder and the ignorance of youth that came with it - a time before she realized the horrors of what she’d done.

With a final breath, she held onto that shiny memory and waited for the pain, followed by the darkness.

It never came.

When she opened her eyes, he was stuffing his gun back inside his tailored jacket, looking around her apartment with assessing judgment; lingering on her open balcony door where the rain kept pouring.

Her cat Aldred remained unaffected by the events that he was witnessing. He sat boredly on the barstool by the bar with a slow blinking, sea-green expression and wide pupils. A grey, fluffy tail twitched, and that was all before he closed his eyes and fell asleep. It was hard to hate Aldred, but she expected more from the furry fucker. Hate was hard to wrap her head around anyway. The drugs were killing her senses as well as her limbs and hate, love, fear or anything else that required a brilliant reactive display of synapses and neuron-fireworks was but a fizzle.

She watched with ragged breath as the man - the hitman and her murderer - crouched down before her. 

He evened out the wrinkles in his ironed jacket, smoothed down the material over his thighs and clasped his gloved hands between his spread legs. The glare of city lights from outside the balcony shone off his head which appeared water-soft from the rain outside. She rolled her head to the side to squint and see if she could spot any moisture on his suit but in doing so started to slide down the glossy wall.

A firm, steady hand gripped her shoulder and steered her upright. Body heat. Physical contact. When was the last time someone had touched her without it being malicious?

In the refracted city light, he blinked and lowered his gaze to somewhere below her chin. His mouth lifted… maybe… or that too could have been the drugs playing tricks. 

He said something droll in Polish, or Russian, and steadied her by the neck as she began to slip back across the smooth plastic wall again. The warmth beneath oiled black leather was calming like the pills in her bloodstream. Perhaps, it was her imagination but the sensation of a thumb on her chin - underneath where she’d pressed the muzzle of her own gun - brought a weak chill to her spine. 

“I… changed my mind. Don’t kill me,” she slurred as if she had a say in the matter. He extended the fingers hanging between his legs and coiled them into a fist with a soft crinkle.

“Idiota…” he insulted with passion and mocking interest, “Not here for mała dama.”

His leather-thumb teased her chin again and then, in an act that seemed straight from a fever dream, the man leaned in and pulled down her lower lip. She moaned… in fear or something else? As he peered at the shiny inner lip tissue, gum, and teeth. The squeal of leather across her bottom teeth felt like nails on a chalkboard, but it made her gasp… eyes falling closed.

“... who are-” she tried, quickly forgetting her question for blissful stupor. 

The next time she opened her eyes, it was to the sound of her doorknob turning. The hitman, had his hands on her shoulder and waist - a familiar, firm touch - but he twist on his polished boots the second her hinges squealed. His head whipped around, his touch vanished and the gun was pull free in one fluid motion. Scripture stood out on the side of his head, wrapping around his cranium in faded black ink. 

A rose laid over his carotid artery. That dimple of facial hair was proven to be more ink that led to more pigmentation: spider webs, letters, and that… rose…

Her mother’s name had been Rose. That fucking… bitch...

The front door opened for the second time in the last twenty minutes and… wait…

“... where?” She looked up and saw a black, male shape waiting against the wall by the door. The Russian. The Polack… or whatever the fuck he was; just waiting.

She blinked, following Aldred’s grey blur across the floor as he shot under her bed. Across the floor, further up in her doorway, there was a man. He was poorly dressed in hospital booties, white latex gloves and a stark Hawaiian printed shirt. This new man carefully shut her door behind him, revealing the rest of the dark silhouette waiting against the wall; gun raised. 

This portly fucker was her hired killer - the real one. 

Figures...

It made sense that Jessie would only be able to afford this shithead and not the cleanly dressed, professional hit man aiming his gun at the back of sloppy bed hair and cracked-out eyes. She stared at the intruder through a thin haze and saw him grin under the line of a mustache. This new murderer pulled out a dingy nine-millimeter from his back pocket, and she inhaled, preparing for the end.

“Jessimae said I could do whatever I wanted before showin’ you what for,” a wet huff, “but damn bitch, I gotta say… you look half dead already.” 

His grin stretched further as he jerked the gun to the side, pointing at her bed.

Her brows furrowed at the implication, feeling oddly detached from herself but no less disgusted as she slowly lost the ability to control her abdominals and began sliding along the wall to the floor. Midway down to the ground she tried to brace herself with a palm; elbow rattling.

Mr. Hawaiian shirt laughed, “How about you make this easy for the both of us and we start sl-“

A spray of blood splattered with a soft wheeze of sound, globs of red painting her saran wrapped wall moments after her elbow gave way and she hit the floor. A few stray droplets hit her bare arm and neck, but she barely felt a thing. 

Mr. Hawaiian shirt fell forward like a silent film comedian, plunking to the floor with his forehead smacking between her spread ankles. She blinked, sneered and went to wipe away the blood from her arm but found herself slumping further in on herself as the hitman - for someone else it would seem - carefully stepped over the corpse towards her balcony door.

He was going to leave her there, it was evident that had been his first thought, but her brain was finally putting two and two together, and despite being so high she could barely croak, she tried to scream. From her viewpoint, she couldn’t - didn’t - see the the silenced pistol that had been suddenly aimed at her head… nor the hesitation on the man’s face… or how his eyes softened before putting his gun back in his jacket pocket.

“Masz kłopoty...” It sounded cynical but honest. 

For some reason, she wanted to agree with him, but it felt like she had cotton balls stuffed in her mouth and her heart was too busy hammering with sluggish contractions as his hands pulled at her arms. He dragged her off the saran carpet, away from the dribbling blood ejection. 

Her ankles flopped uselessly. Her head lulled into the side of her neck as he hefted her against his shins, grabbed her under one shoulder and pulled an arm around her ribs. Shame came to mind, but that emotion - like the others - lasted only a few moments

Like a sack of wet rice, he threw her over his shoulder and lower her to the neatly tucked bed where she gasped and bounced. 

Her suicide note crinkled under her hip - the fuze igniting.

“He’ll just…” she breathed as her odd savior stood back up, staring down at her with eyes underlined with prison tattoos and some blurred word above one brow, “... Jessie will just come… and he’ll do it himself.”

“Not problem,” he said in broken English; accent bulky and impersonal. The ceiling fan caught her eye, swirling and churning and casting soft breeze down on the pale sweat growing under her back and thighs.  
Not his problem, she thought, feeling cold and empty and hollow and warm and… aroused; realizing she’d just witnessed someone blow a guy’s brains out who would have raped, killed her and who the fuck knew what else before chucking her in a dumpster. He saved her… for now...

The arousal thing was weird, perhaps a side effect of the drugs or the death, or maybe it stirred up the guilt she’s lived with for long - the forgotten murders and the lust for violence that followed. Getting turned on by the crime scene now was the difference between being fucked up for life and fucked up for an evening. If watching brains blow out someone's skull actually got her wet, well… she had more significant problems than gasping for breath on her mattress, crushing her goodbye letter, and getting stared down by some Polish assassin.

Or a Russian, she thought. It was so hard to tell.

“I think I’m dying,” she managed, feeling weak and tired; chest so heavy.

“Jesteś blisko przedawkowania. Jeśli będziesz spać, umrzesz…” he observed and commented. This bald man - with his crisp black suit and black gloves - stared at the leg she had hanging off the bed and nudged it with his own, watching the way it hung limp; barely twitching.

“Nie ma sensu cię zabijać.”

“... sure,” she muttered, smiling weak and sad and then felt her lips fall into nothing, “if I fall asleep I’m done for.”

“Tak…” was his response before pausing, and adding in grave English, “Yes.”

Again, for the second or third time now, she caught him looking out her balcony door, staring through the rain. He twisted his gaze to the painting of the bear with silver rope on her wall - a wall that separated her apartment from a night owl called Markus. The forgettable looking caucasian man brought prostitutes to his place, noisily fucked and argued with them... and had gambling debts based on the noisy phone calls.

“... is it Markus?” She asked, struggling for a second to catch her breath before finding a steady rhythm. 

The hitman turned, assessed her from splayed hair to dangling ankles, lingering on the usual places men tended be attracted to, and gave her a brusque chuff. He turned to leave once more, but stopped and bowed his head. 

He was experiencing a moral dilemma - one she had a hard time wrapping her thoughts around, so she said nothing and tried not to focus on the odd tempo of her beating heart as he sat down on the edge of her bed. All she could see of him was his back, but the movement of his shoulder and elbows suggested he’d pulled his silenced pistol back out of his jacket and was currently resting it over his thigh. 

Was he going to kill her after all? Was that a mercy at this point? No, she’d sooner go out and use her gun on Jessie than let the bastard phone up another sleazeball, or do it himself. She had twenty-four hours maybe… enough time to call the cops, explain away this whole odd and bloody ordeal with the candor of a sober woman. She could then go out for coffee and shoot Jessie in the head. Maybe she’d even get away with it…

As she played out scenarios, she stiffed and turned. She caught him pulling her suicide note out from under her bottom, lifting it in one gloved hand to his meddlesome gaze.

“...f’fuck you,” she slurred, “that’s-it’s… private. Don’t…”

“Jesteś grzesznikiem. Tak jak ja…” He said and kept reading.

“I said don’t…” 

It felt like she was pulling thousands of pounds behind her, but she managed to roll on her side. The nameless assassin ignored the dip of the bed and her first attempt at punching his back - knuckles slipping down his spine - but when she gripped the slack of his pressed jacket, he turned around unnaturally fast, snatched up her weak wrist and pinned her back down to the mattress. Her breath wheezed out against his mouth as he threw a leg between her legs and… fuck… he was so close… why was he so-

“Przygotuj się,” he warned only to pinch her between throat and neck, twisting a nerve that sent sobering pain up her spine through the middle of her brain. 

She saw stars, gasped awake, squirming beneath him until her thighs were spread around his planted knee and his groin was jammed over her hip. She was panting; arching against the shocking belt to her senses until her crotch was pressed hard against the thick, unmoving trunk of his thigh. 

She pushed at his shoulders, felt him move away but second thought her intentions and grabbed at his jacket collar, feeling her heart battering her ribs. Adrenaline broke through the Valium fog enough for her to make a dumb decision she only half wanted. While he was pushing his thumb between the tendons in her wrist, pulling her culled hand off his suit, she hooked a thigh around the back of his leg and cupped his neck; skin on skin. 

He was hot as if feverish and moist with sweat or old rain...

Were his eyes blue or grey? Did it matter? - they were surrounded in dots of faded dermal ink, teardrops and a shoddy cursive ‘psycho’ that said enough for her own sanity. The fact that her less drugged and soberer self decided to do… this... said all there needed to be said. Maybe she was a pimple on society - maybe she’d done horrific things. 

If this guy could read scratchy English handwriting then he knew enough to either relish this… or shoot her in the head. Perhaps the world was full of worse people than her, but morally, she could have done better with her life. It made a weird sort of sense that she’d reach out to someone who’d killed more people than she had. 

A leather pointer finger pressed against her lips instead of a gun going off beside her head. He glared, and she blinked, nodding. Gentle-like, as if she’d break, he turned her over on her belly where her body felt more cumbersome than a dense star, and her lungs struggled to drag down oxygen. 

She laid her palms down flat on the bed and turned her cheek into the warm comforter, “... god, what am I doing.” It wasn’t a question and it was barely said above a whisper.

“Exposing monster,” he replied thickly; low and laced with smoky undertones.

Shiny, well-kept metal stared back at her, along with the half-folded suicide note. She could pinpoint a few sentences, felt tears gum her lashes and closed her eyes as he peeled her sweatpants down her ass, exposing bare skin to his gaze and the cold air of her apartment. The blood and putrid odor from the body on the floor finally hit her nostrils, but it was subtle… less noxious than the assassin’s musk and her own clean bedsheets.

This was stupid. It was dumb - it was more reckless than telling Jessie to go fuck himself after she realized the kinda operation he ran on the side. 

“Piękny potwór.”

There was a moment of silence, and the only reason it didn’t make her sweat and tremble was that she was staring at the gun he’d used to shoot Mr. Hawaiian Shirt. The threat of being popped in the cranium was low. 

Beyond the dampening sound of rain, she listened as he undid his clasp and zipper. She wasn’t looking in the direction where he laid down his black suit jacket nor did she turn back to see the way he rolled up his sleeves, exposing old, faded tattoos that told more stories than she regretted in her letter. All she noticed was the smooth leather-soft touches that skimmed the fat of her ass, as he pulled stiff fingers down both globes towards her wet center. 

He said something she couldn’t begin to fathom - something hot and full of emotion - before pulling her cheeks open with strong thumbs. 

His gaze burned. 

She leaked a hot river down her folds, staining the bedspread, and blushed as she read the contents of her suicide note over and over again. 

When he entered her, it burned... 

There was no pre-fingering to prepare her, not that she was focused on the prospect of it as much as she were bad memories and framed killings. Even the feeling of being stretched and filled wasn’t seated in reality. She felt detached from the world and her body and his, yet moaned and curled her fingers into the sheets; lifting her ass as he settled in all the way with a tight grunt. 

“... punish me,” she sighed while stroking the edge of her messily-written note, hissing as he slid from her with fire marking untested muscles and slammed himself home. 

The sex was hard and impersonal yet soaked in emotion. He was fucking her into the bed for his own reasons, and she’d instigated it for some… reason… some purpose. 

Tonight was weird, she thought, while taking a hitman’s cock with zero fanfare, despite the way it took her breath away. He was thick and swollen and hard as a rock. Normally, she’d have been flattered, but not now - now she was outside the feeling and the emotions. Nothing was breaking down her mental walls… not even fat… foreign cock that knew just the right angles and found her buttons at just the right depth and speed.

She slid against the bed, relished the distant grip of his hands on her ample hips - the contact of his hot, firm stomach against her ass - and full indents of pleasure. Against the harsh, slapping cock, she fisted the letter by his gun, drew it towards her despite his faltering rhythm and unfolded it. She winced, grunting and moaning. Blurry ecstasy filled her as she read the words she’d written… meant to be her last…

‘-left you all alone in that house and I’m sorry for that. I’ve never forgotten that night, and if you hate me, I understand. I killed them not for what they did but for what they didn’t do. I did it for us. For-‘

“Haaa… god,” she gasped as his cock found that perfect spot, “... god, forgive me.”

“Będę się…” he snarled and slapped her ass in a brilliant bolt of shock, “z’za ciebie modlić...“

She moaned aloud, buried her face in the letter until her tears made the ink run and came, shaking inside his hands and around his cock on her bed while he worked himself through the sharp contractions. 

Another hard spank lit her ass on fire. 

He inhaled like a charging bull, bruised her with deep fingerprints around her hips and bowed his head to her spine; rubbing the welt on her ass until the skin tingled. She jolted against the mattress, stiffening at the sudden, unmistakable sensation of cum wetting her insides as he fucked her deep and slow and close. 

Son of a bitch, she thought with bored vitriol, wincing as he pulled his cock from her tight, sloppy cunt. She was too weak to push him away, nor did she truly care to speak her annoyance because there wasn’t really any. 

All too willingly, she let him turn her over on her back; the note still clutched over her face like a mask to hide under. He peeled it away, rested the suicide note on her bedside table and pulled her knees open until she was exposed; thighs stretched apart… 

His cum dribbled out her roughly-fucked cunt, much to his hidden pleasure.

The assassin stood back - barely a quiver in his legs - and tugged a linen cloth from his back pocket. She watched from the bed while he stared between her thighs, enjoying the view of his cum being squeezed in dollops out of her inflamed inner lips. He cleaned his cock off carefully, staring all the while at her messy cunt. He did his pants up while never taking his eyes off the state of her. 

“Jeśli przyjdzie dziecko. Wrócę, Dama.”

“At this point…” she muttered - devoid, “it’s obvious I don’t understand Polish… or whatever the fuck you’re speaking.”

For a moment, she marveled at the old ink decorating his forearms, some bleeding beneath the leather gloves as though his palms and fingers were tattooed as well. She didn’t like the way he looked at her juicy cunt, so full of his semen - she didn’t like the idea of tonight ending in pregnancy, nor it being a hitman’s child. Then again, she was a murderer as well… so any kid was screwed either way. 

“Kumeiga,” he told her. 

“Lucas Kumeiga.” 

He nodded to himself as he rolled down his sleeves, donned his jacket and smoothed out the folds until he was standing between her thighs; dressed as sharply as when he waltzed into her apartment. 

“Lucas,” she repeated, only half-caring because she doubted she’d ever see him again. 

There was no reason for Lucas to ask her for her own name, he’d read it on the suicide note anyway.

Slowly, he crouched until she had to prop her drug-heavy body up on shaken elbows to see the way his eyes lowered and his lips lifted at the edges. Lucas leaned in; hard face softening. 

Black leather thumbs stroked down her labia, inner lips and tugged the folds apart. A weak contraction hit her insides thanks to the way he obsessed over the state of her cunt. The way he indulged himself… in such a primal form, made her insides pulse again, and another leak of opaque semen flow outward. 

He groaned, said something softly in his native tongue and stroked her with an odd reverence. The moment was unfounded in reality and unexpected, but she barely had time to savor the oddly romantic touch before it was gone and he was smothering her in body heat, saturated in clean sweat and something that smelt of grease and cowhide. 

“Do następnego razu…” he said against her cheek, barely touching the skin with his lips. 

It was unintelligible as was everything else he said in that foreign language and yet, when he left her there in a pile on her bed - cum still slipping from her cunt - she repeated the odd sounding phrase until the sex- weakened drugs finally drew her under and into sleep. 

If she’d been fluent in Polish, she would have fallen asleep with more fear than she drifted off with because… it'd be only a matter of time before she saw him again. 

Until next time, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have the time, please leave me a comment letting me know what worked for you or what didn't.
> 
> Thank you to Flesh Dust for betaing! <3
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